


the curtains close on this idyllic scene

by red_plaid_on_red_plaid



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Femslash, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Romantic Fluff, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27528757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid/pseuds/red_plaid_on_red_plaid
Summary: Hermione wasn’t sure when she had started noticing Pansy come by her office more frequently.  It had begun innocuously enough – a visit here regarding documentation for immigrating werewolves, a casual conversation there about a scandalous article inThe Daily Prophet.  Innocent.Unsuspecting.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Pansy Parkinson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 176





	the curtains close on this idyllic scene

**Author's Note:**

> First solo fanfic! I've been a long-time reader but the craziness that is 2020 has prompted me to start writing. I hope everyone is keeping safe and doing well!
> 
> Please mind the tags! If I’ve missed something, please let me know.
> 
> Beta'd by the talented and extremely patient [coffeeandchemicals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals) (who definitely held my hand on this one) (you can also find her on tumblr @ [coffeeandchemicals](https://coffeeandchemicals.tumblr.com/)).

Most who knew her would suggest that Hermione lived with her head in books rather than the real world. Most who knew her would theorize that Hermione was more comfortable with facts and figures than with fame and fortune. For Hermione to notice anything of the mundane tangible sort was so rare as to be practically nonexistent, especially now, after so many years out of Hogwarts. She didn’t have to worry about being crushed by trolls or petrified by giant snakes or eaten by spiders. She didn’t have to be concerned with saving her friends from mortal peril. She didn’t have to be afraid that she would be murdered because of blood purity prejudices.

But. But, for the most part, Hermione would rather live in her head because the world was _still_ harsh and cruel and unfair, despite Voldemort being long dead, defeated by the “Chosen One”. The good guys won. The bad guys lost. The curtains close on this idyllic scene. Everyone lives happily ever after, right?

Wrong.

Voldemort’s followers still existed, they had just donned other costumes, led other causes, shifted allegiances just enough to stay off of the Ministry’s radar. Voldemort’s fanatical ideas still endured, further warped and twisted as they were passed down to a new generation of zealots.

So, yes, Hermione lived in her head, mostly focused on statutes and legislation, these minute details in the vast bureaucratic machine were things that she could control and affect.

And, yet, without cause or justification, her brain had decided to shift that focus to something outside her normal purview, which was quite confusing. And, as “the brightest witch of her age”, Hermione did not like being confused.

Hermione wasn’t sure when she had started noticing Pansy come by her office more frequently. It had begun innocuously enough – a visit here regarding documentation for immigrating werewolves, a casual conversation there about a scandalous article in _The Daily Prophet_. Innocent. 

Unsuspecting.

At first, these visits seemed odd until Hermione realized that her office was between Pansy’s and the main entrance of the building that the law firm resided in. These visits further made sense when Hermione realized that Pansy, like her, usually ended up working too late, working too early, and, in general, just working too much. Pansy’s work ethic was only the first thing that Hermione had begun to pay attention to. And, of course, once she started noticing one thing, she couldn’t help but notice others.

Hermione also had started to notice the keen intelligence – and maybe a bit of scorn – that flashed in Pansy’s eyes or in the quirk of her mouth during their monthly progress meetings with the rest of the legal team. Not only was Pansy always prepared and organized (some could say to a fault), but she came armed with sarcasm and backhanded comments (rarely compliments) that left their colleagues a little aghast. Pansy was quick, she was biting, and she could verbally spar with the best of them. Hermione, if she was being honest, envied Pansy in her confidence and assertiveness. More and more, Hermione realized that the whinging girl from Hogwarts was gone, and the woman who replaced her was a force to be reckoned with.

(Hermione wondered if she could ever become a force to be reckoned with.)

And, lately, Hermione had begun to realize that Pansy was a complex, dynamic woman, unapologetic in who she was, unwilling to put up with the bullshit that most people shied away from. Pansy demanded attention. Not with words, no, but in her manner of interaction, in the strong lines of her face, in the set of her shoulders, in her cool and calm intelligence. Pansy knew how to find the advantage, to gauge the response, and to read the situation far before anyone else. Everyone was an opponent to Pansy; everyone was a challenge, and Pansy was competitive (and a Slytherin, one could never forget that when dealing with Pansy).

Hermione had begun to observe Pansy, and Hermione had begun to see these things. Pansy was mysterious, calculating, and difficult to read. But Pansy was also elegant, charismatic, and charming when she wanted to be. So, Hermione concluded that Pansy was a puzzle, a series of Russian nesting dolls, an enigma with her own gravitational field. And Hermione, well, Hermione was beginning to be pulled into Pansy’s orbit.

Hermione wanted to figure her out.

But that was difficult to do because Hermione never knew where she stood with Pansy. Even now, when Pansy had begun to be a more common fixture in Hermione’s office. Bringing her a coffee or a tea some mornings or stopping by on her way home to say good night, with the collar of her sleek black coat turned up against the impending chill and her hands protected by dainty black leather gloves. Pansy’s eyebrow usually was quirked when she stopped by at the end of the day, as if to say _you shouldn’t be here, Granger_. And, it was usually quite late. Hermione _really_ shouldn’t be here, but the thought of going home – to her dark, empty flat – wasn’t always appealing.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione said in a somewhat rushed and brisk manner. She was on her way out for the evening, taking the long way around to the lobby so that she could stop at the washroom to change into evening wear for some Ministry function (Hermione was too frazzled to remember which one). Harry had asked her to be his plus one, and she was late (wasn’t she always late?), and she practically flew down the hallway leaving Pansy sitting in her own office with a slightly bemused expression on her face.

As she left, Hermione could have sworn that she heard Pansy murmur, “Good night, Granger.” The rest of the offices that Hermione raced by were dark and she looked back to see the lonely light of Pansy’s office filter into the hallway. As usual, Pansy was one of the last two people to leave the building, but Hermione normally left after her. 

Hermione watched Pansy leave the breakroom, a cup of something hot and steaming in her hand, her expression blank and guarded. Pansy nodded to Hermione as they passed in the hallway. When Hermione entered the breakroom, she noted that Ivy and Laurel were gossiping again; it seemed like everyone in the office liked to gossip. Not that Hermione would admit it, but sometimes she hung around the breakroom just so that she could hear some of the gossip, and, lately, she had been paying attention to and filing away the little bits that she heard about Pansy.

So much of it was questioning Pansy’s background – did she have money? Where did she get her clothes? Some of it was about Pansy’s work – how did she get so much done? Why was she always such a bitch during meetings? Hermione hated that one. Pansy wasn’t a bitch; she was assertive and authoritative. Everything that men were praised for and women were demeaned and ostracized for. But most of it was about Pansy’s personal life, which was the current topic of conversation between Laurel and Ivy. Hermione discreetly tried to listen, while she fixed herself a cup of dark bitter coffee.

Apparently, according to Ivy, Pansy had been seen out for drinks with a younger man one evening and an older woman another evening. According to Laurel, Pansy had been seen out for dinner with a married couple.

“How did you know they were married?” asked Ivy, leaning closer to Laurel, like that somehow made their whispered conversation less conspicuous. It didn’t.

“They were wearing matching wedding bands,” responded Laurel, “but they each had a hand on Pansy’s legs! Her _legs_ , Ivy. The husband _and_ the wife!”

Ivy looked a little thrilled and blushed as Laurel recounted what someone in Accounting had told her, but Laurel had seemed utterly dismayed and a little appalled. It only made Hermione more interested, more intrigued, more curious.

Who was this femme fatale? Who was this confident, poised woman who didn’t care how society painted her? Who was Pansy Parkinson? Hermione wanted to know; she wanted to uncover each layer of Pansy, like those Russian nesting dolls – pull each one out and learn all of her secrets and quirks, see who Pansy was underneath the beautiful, untouchable painted exterior. Hermione wanted all of these things, but she didn’t know why.

(Okay, maybe she had a little inkling as to why.)

“Good night, Granger.” Pansy was standing at the door to Hermione’s miniscule office. Hermione had been in a reverie contemplating the cascading effect of a minor change in Standards and hadn’t heard Pansy approach. So, she simultaneously jumped, squeaked, and flushed as she dropped the quill she had been holding. An ink stain began to spread over the parchment that she had been perusing, and Hermione began feverishly blotting it with tissues. Pansy just looked amused.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t realize you were so jumpy,” she said, sardonically, with one perfect eyebrow raised (almost to indicate, that, in fact she had meant to startle Hermione and maybe took some small amount of perverse pleasure in it).

Hermione further reddened and smiled weakly. “I was a million miles away, I didn’t hear you come in,” she muttered, trying to quell the flush and blot the ink. At this moment, she was glad that her desk was positioned between her and the doorway in which Pansy stood.

“Anyways, have a good night, Granger,” Pansy said, staring intently at Hermione as if she were waiting for Hermione to say something.

“Good night,” Hermione forced out through clenched teeth as she continued to try to save her parchment, but the ink was still spreading. She was embarrassed by her clumsiness and could only muster a brief glance at Pansy before returning to her mess.

Pansy let out a small sigh and chuckled. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Then Pansy, her wicked grin, and her quirked eyebrow were gone, and Hermione was left with a half-blotted ink spill and the vague notion that maybe Pansy had been waiting for something else to happen.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione mumbled, the image of spilled ink still fresh in her memory. Pansy looked up from her own desk – vastly different from Hermione’s. Papers and parchment in neat stacks, extra quills in a jar on a corner, ledgers and documents meticulously shelved on the bookcases that ran along the far wall. Completely the opposite of the controlled chaos that Hermione was constantly struggling in. Oh, she tried to organize but there just never seemed to be enough time to do it justice.

“I’ll walk out with you and we can lock up together,” Pansy said, standing up and reaching for her coat – as always, black and stylish, which made Hermione feel frumpy in her plaid quilted jacket. Pansy pulled on her delicate black leather gloves and came around the desk.

Hermione reached to flick off the lights to Pansy’s office, and she felt Pansy’s fingers brush the back of her hand as Pansy also reached for the light switch. For a half second, time seemed to stand still as Hermione looked at Pansy’s fingers against her own, the black of Pansy’s gloves contrasting against the paleness of her own skin.

Hermione wasn’t sure if the light caress of Pansy’s fingers against the back of her hand was intentional. When she looked up at Pansy’s face, the darkness of her eyes was unfathomable but there was _some_ emotion burning in their depths. Pansy slowly withdrew her hand.

“After you, Granger,” Pansy said, inclining her head towards the office door.

Pansy was a study in contrasts, Hermione noticed. She was predictable in appearance, inasmuch as she was always wearing black – well-tailored clothes that fit her slim frame precisely – and made her pale skin look almost luminous. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a wicked smirk. She was unpredictable in her manner and affectation. Pansy could be biting or cordial. She could lash out at the barest hint of provocation or serenely accept the most unfair criticism (all while, presumably, filing away the insult to use as future ammunition), and one could never be certain which version of Pansy they’d be privy to. Hermione had attempted to catalogue and analyze Pansy’s behaviour to see if she could develop some sort of pattern or correlation to anticipate Pansy’s responses and reactions. However, to her bewilderment, Hermione hadn’t been able to draw any concrete conclusions beyond Pansy being utterly mysterious.

“Good night, Granger,” Pansy said, after lightly knocking on Hermione’s door. Maybe she didn’t cruelly want to startle Hermione into an early grave. Hermione smiled. There Pansy was, in her black coat and gloves, looking faintly regal with her bobbed hair perfectly in place. Although, there was a faint crease between her eyebrows.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione replied, shuffling the papers on her desk, feeling a little hesitant about what to do with her hands under the scrutiny of Pansy’s gaze.

Pansy nodded and then turned to leave, but she looked over her shoulder and added, “Be sure to bundle up, Granger, it’s snowing heavily out there.”

“Oh, th-thanks,” stuttered Hermione, taken aback, half rising from her desk. This had gone outside their normal purview of interaction. Pansy’s dark eyes glittered, she nodded again, and walked away. Hermione’s gaze was drawn to the long lines of her back underneath the coat, and she found herself in the doorway of her office watching the sway of Pansy’s hips as she walked down the hallway to the building entrance.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione mumbled through the thick layers of the scarf she had wrapped securely around her neck. After the last snowfall, she wasn’t taking any chances.

Pansy snorted, looking Hermione up and down. Taking in the quilted plaid jacket, woolen toque, and the scarf, of another plaid, one that clashed with her jacket.

“I feel like you’re ready for the Canadian wilderness, Granger,” she smirked, drawing her eyes slowly to Hermione’s.

“This time, I thought I’d be prepared,” Hermione responded, a little flustered.

“Good idea,” said Pansy, as she stood up from her desk. “Although, if I recall correctly, you were always prepared in school.” She walked around her desk to stand in front of Hermione, and Hermione noticed the way that Pansy’s black skirt swished around her legs, hinting at their shape, as she moved. Pansy reached out an elegant hand and gently tugged Hermione’s toque down. “There you are, all nice and snug…” Pansy’s voice softened with each word until it was barely louder than a whisper. Hermione could feel the heat from Pansy’s hand as it lingered for a moment on the side of her head.

For some reason, Hermione’s breath quickened, and she could feel a blush rising to her face. “Thank you,” she muttered as she ducked her head away from Pansy. Why was she feeling this way?

“Good night – oh, are you okay, Granger?” Pansy had succeeded in startling Hermione again. Hermione had been standing on her tiptoes trying to reach a book on the top shelf of the bookcase on the wall behind the desk, and Pansy’s voice had caused her to jump and stumble over her own feet. Now, she was unceremoniously sprawled against her desk with an arm thrown out for balance. Pansy took a step into Hermione’s office. She hesitated for a moment, then entered fully.

“Are you alright?” Pansy asked again, reaching a hand out to help Hermione right herself. Blushing furiously – why was she always blushing around Pansy? – Hermione nodded. Again, it was hard to look Pansy in the eye, but she allowed Pansy to help her up. Pansy’s warm hand was strong in her grasp.

“Thanks,” Hermione mumbled, smiling weakly. Pansy must think that she was this clumsy, scattered idiot.

Pansy’s hand stayed clasped around her own for a moment and Hermione looked up to meet her gaze. Those dark, gleaming eyes had their own gravity and Hermione felt like she couldn’t look away.

“Be careful there, Granger. You never know when a pack of wild books will jump out and attack,” said Pansy softly as she stepped away from Hermione. The movement of her hand across Hermione’s felt like the barest whisper of a caress.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione said, awkwardly hovering at Pansy’s door. Pansy looked up from the parchment in front of her. A quill lay next to said parchment and there was a smear of ink down Pansy’s right hand. It was very unlike Pansy.

Hermione stepped further into Pansy’s office. She had baked muffins last night (blueberry) and had decided at the last minute to bring Pansy one. Now, she wasn’t sure why. Hermione had no idea if Pansy even liked muffins or baked goods or carbs in general. Maybe Pansy was a robot and survived on electricity. No, that was silly, Pansy couldn’t be a robot, her eyes were too alive.

“I brought you a muffin,” and Hermione handed Pansy said muffin. Pansy quirked an eyebrow, a small smirk appearing on her face. Like Hermione’s desk, Pansy’s was positioned so that she faced the doorway, which meant that Hermione was trying to maintain her balance while awkwardly leaning over the desk with the muffin clutched in one extended hand and her coat gripped tightly in the other.

“Why, Granger, how delightful of you,” Pansy replied, taking the muffin, wrapped in wax paper, with the long elegant fingers of her right hand. Hermione itched to rub the ink smear on the side of Pansy’s palm. Pansy was always so put together. The ink smear was incongruous.

“Did you bake this?” Pansy asked, bringing the wax paper bundle to her nose. She looked up at Hermione through her lashes, her eyes flashing with a secret amusement.

Hermione nodded, she felt like a flush was oncoming. Of course it was.

“Granger, you are a woman of many talents, and I am sure your muffin will taste delicious.”

Now, Hermione did blush.

“Good night, Granger.” Pansy was leaning against the door frame to Hermione’s office. It was such a nonchalant pose for her, black coat tossed casually over one arm, gloves clasped in one hand, and one eyebrow slightly raised. Of course, Hermione had again jumped upon Pansy speaking – how could that woman move so quietly, so stealthily?

“Oh, Pansy! Are you heading out? It’s only…” Hermione checked her watch and did a double take. It was 8pm. How had so much time passed already? “Oh, it’s so late!” Hermione abruptly stood up, immediately frazzled, frantically putting papers into a desk drawer, and shoving a small stack of books back on the shelf.

“Oh dear, are you late for something? Maybe a date?” Pansy’s stance hadn’t changed but her posture seemed to tighten, as if she was a little tense at that idea. Then, almost as if she had given herself a mental shake, Hermione saw Pansy relax, as if she didn’t care. For some reason, this didn’t sit well with Hermione.

“Late for something – yes. Another Ministry function that I’d rather not attend but Harry talked me into. Is it a date? No, it’s not… not that that should matter,” Hermione muttered the last bit under breath. Coming around her desk, she reached for her coat on the hook by the door.

“You’re right, Granger, it doesn’t matter. At least, it doesn’t matter to me,” replied Pansy, as if Hermione’s last words were more than a verbalized internal monologue.

Hermione reddened, immediately feeling angry with herself for her own reaction and Pansy’s dismissiveness.

“Although,” Pansy continued, leaning in towards Hermione, so close that Hermione felt Pansy’s breath on her cheek, “I do hope you have a lovely evening on your ‘not date’.” Pansy’s last words sent a whisper of warm breath into Hermione’s ear and she shivered in response, a tingle of desire running down her spine.

Pansy turned then – how could she do that so artfully? Long legs graceful, black skirt swishing around her hips, each movement fluidic, languid yet exact. Hermione had to give herself a mental shake and internally rolled her eyes at herself. She had been staring at Pansy’s legs, with her mouth slightly open, hand still raised to pick up her coat from the hook. What was she? A hormonal teenager? She was a thirty-year-old woman, this was ridiculous.

After Pansy left her office, Hermione stood there for a few moments, lips still slightly parted and the memory of Pansy’s stocking-clad legs moving swiftly away from her replaying in her mind. That mental shake became a physical one as Hermione tried to clear the fog from her brain and regain the equilibrium that Pansy seemed so good at taking away. This Ministry function better be worth it.

It wasn’t.

“Good morning, Granger,” Pansy called breezily (and somewhat wickedly) as she just strolled into Hermione’s office the following day.

It was not a good morning. In fact, the morning was absolutely dreadful.

The Ministry function that Hermione had attended had been a dry, awkward event where Harry had flitted about charming people and networking in an attempt to increase Auror budgets. He had a smile plastered on his face and seemed perfectly at ease going from person to person and then extricating himself after a few minutes of conversation with no ill effects, disdain, or resentment from anyone.

Hermione was not good at that. She was not good at networking or schmoozing or charming people. She was not good at putting herself out there and she definitely was not good at handling rejection. Hermione played the wallflower at these Ministry events. And, as was a benefit and a curse, these functions always seemed to provide complimentary wine. So, Hermione had spent the evening sipping wine and nodding politely when people chatted with her. When she couldn’t think of anything to say, she took a sip. When she didn’t know how to end the conversation or change the subject, she took a sip. When she wasn’t talking to anyone and was standing next to the wall (in perfect wallflower fashion), she took many sips. And, when she needed an out from an awkward conversation or a conversation that she was making awkward, she went and refilled her wine. Consequently, she’d drunk too much wine and was suffering from an abject hangover this morning.

Pansy must have realized this and had decided to make Hermione’s morning even more miserable by being uncharacteristically cheerful and louder than normal, or maybe Pansy’s voice was just amplified by the pounding in Hermione’s head.

“Oh, hello, Pansy,” Hermione muttered, squinting up at Pansy’s face. This morning, the usual dim office light seemed far too bright and Hermione’s head felt far too heavy. Surrendering, she let it drop.

A cup of coffee appeared in front of her on the desk, and Hermione glanced up to see Pansy take a sip of her own coffee. Pansy’s eyebrow was raised, and she gave a pointed look down at the coffee and then back at Hermione.

“Drink up, doll,” Pansy murmured, her voice much lower than her greeting. Wait, _doll_? Since when was Pansy calling her a pet name? But, in her depleted mental state – she was never going to drink again (at least not until the next Ministry function) – who was Hermione to argue with the voice of reason?

Hermione picked up the cup, her gaze absently traveling down Pansy’s legs as she took a sip of coffee. Was Pansy’s usual black pencil skirt even shorter and tighter? Hermione gave herself another mental shake, something she found herself doing more and more lately.

“Thank you… how did you know this was what I needed?” Hermione mumbled into the coffee cup, refusing to look up at Pansy.

“Oh, that was obvious, love,” Pansy said. “First, you’re half an hour later than you normally are. Second, you just walked by my office without even glancing covertly in at me – oh don’t look at me like that, Granger, I’ve seen you watching me,” Pansy smirked at Hermione’s abrupt gasp and alarmed look. “Don’t deny it,” she continued in response to Hermione’s minute head shake. “Thirdly, I could smell the reek of cheap wine on you from my desk when you walked by. So, it seemed like you could use some caffeine.” Pansy paused to see if Hermione would confirm her suspicions. Hermione didn’t. It seemed like too much effort. Pansy added, “I take it your Ministry function was dreadfully dull or dreadfully awkward or some dreadful combination of both?” At this, she stopped speaking and looked Hermione directly in the eye, that one impetuous eyebrow raised in a perfect expression of sarcasm tinged with understanding.

“How did you know?” Hermione asked. “I mean, how did you know that it was dull and I was awkward?” she clarified, feeling quite slow, as if she were thinking through a thick fog and her head was stuffed with straw. In this moment, she had a great deal of empathy for the scarecrow that just wanted a brain.

“Well, my dear,” said Pansy, taking a moment to look at her nails in faux boredom. Her nails were a deep crimson, Hermione realized, and then wondered if she had ever seen Pansy’s nails this colour before. Pansy looked up from her nails and transfixed Hermione with those dark, gleaming eyes. “I know you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Pansy cut her off with an emphatically raised eyebrow, as if to say _don’t fight me on this, you’ll lose_.

“You might not think that I do,” Pansy continued, as if Hermione hadn’t posed any sort of silent protest at all. “Granger, but I do. I know that you’re introverted and reserved and that you should really, and I do mean really, speak your mind more often. Many people here, especially you, would benefit from you being more assertive. So, I know that you are very – _very_ – good at listening to other people talk to the detriment of your own sanity and well being. Furthermore, since it was a Ministry function, and Harry invited you as his plus one, I know that he was likely dashing about, like an eager puppy, networking with all the bigwigs leaving you to be a pretty little wallflower all by your lonesome, waiting for some handsome man to ask you to dance.” Some scorn and a touch of condescension had entered Pansy’s tone at this last bit.

Now, Hermione’s flush was one of anger. Anger at Pansy for calling her out in such a blunt manner, and anger at herself for being the very thing that Pansy had called her out for. She glared at her coffee and wished that she had the willpower to throw it out, just to spite Pansy. But. But the caffeine was helping her headache. So, instead she just scowled and took another sip.

“Oh, Granger, don’t be upset,” said Pansy, perching on the edge of Hermione’s desk and sipping her own coffee. That interminable eyebrow was raised again, and Hermione had the urge to reach up and push it back down. “Everyone does it. Everyone waits for someone else to ask them to the ball. Everyone wants someone to approach them. To include them. To realize how beautiful and how brilliant and how exceptional they are. No one wants to accept that everyone is as self-centred as they are. If you want something, Granger, you have to go for it.”

Pansy’s right hand was now resting on Hermione’s desk. Her fingers splayed and the overhead lights caught hypnotically on the crimson of her nails, making them look like dark pomegranate seeds, as if Pansy was channeling Hades trying to lure her Persephone in.

“And, I suppose, that’s what you do, Pansy?” Hermione asked, her voice slightly raspy. The coffee was helping, though; she felt halfway to human again.

“Well, nobody is perfect,” said Pansy, as she stood up from the edge of Hermione’s desk, facing away from her. Once again, Hermione was mesmerized by the lines of Pansy’s back and the soft curve of her hips. Her mouth went dry. What was wrong with her? Pansy glanced over her shoulder, smirking, her eyes half-lidded, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to Hermione. “But I do know how to get what I want,” Pansy added, as she left Hermione’s office, heels clicking in time to Hermione’s elevated heartbeat. 

Hermione let her head thunk back down onto her desk, hangover be damned. That woman was going to be the death of her, and she didn’t even know it. Or maybe she did.

Hermione didn’t know which was worse.

“Good night, Pansy,” Hermione said, later that day. She wasn’t entirely sure if seeing Pansy at the end of the workday was a good idea given the events of that morning.

Pansy looked up from the parchment she was reading, and a slow grin spread over her features as she took in Hermione’s slightly disheveled state.

“Long day, Granger?” Pansy asked in way of greeting. She carefully set the parchment down on the stack and looked up. There was no ink smear on her hand today.

“You could say that,” said Hermione as she tried to lean nonchalantly against the door frame to Pansy’s office. “Thank you again for the coffee,” she continued after a pause.

Pansy grin became more pronounced and she raised her characteristic eyebrow. Her fingers were delicately resting on the parchment and Hermione was, once again, entranced by the crimson of her nails. An image flashed through her mind of how those fingers and nails would look against her own skin, how Pansy’s hand would look as she gripped the flesh of Hermione’s hip or waist. Hermione flushed again, hoping that those thoughts weren’t written all over her face.

“Of course, doll. I wouldn’t want to see you suffering,” Pansy drawled, then reconsidered, “or, at least, I wouldn’t want to see you suffering unless it was suffering that I caused you…” Pansy trailed off suggestively with those last words, letting them hang in the air between them. Her eyes left Hermione’s face and slowly dragged their way down her body, taking in the worn plaid coat and dark trousers that Hermione usually wore. Her outfit was decidedly not sexy. But. But having Pansy look at her this way made Hermione feel fascinating and attractive. That insipid blush rose higher on Hermione’s cheeks.

“Yes. Well. Um. Okay,” Hermione stammered, looking decided not nonchalant. Could one be chalant? She swallowed audibly. “Anyways, thank you, Pansy, and – and… good night.” Hemione bit her lip, feeling a little pathetic with that finish. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Pansy but “thank you” and “good night” definitely did not cover it.

“Wait a minute, Granger,” Pansy said, standing up from the desk. “It’s late, let me gather my things, and you can walk me out.” Hermione stopped worrying her lip between her teeth and could feel a small smile start to spread on her face.

Pansy’s back was to her, and Hermione was once again entranced by the line of her spine beneath her silky black blouse, and she could not take her eyes away from where that blouse was tucked into the high-waisted pinstriped black pencil skirt that Pansy wore. There was a slit in the back of the skirt and Hermione wondered if Pansy was pushing the boundaries of workplace attire appropriateness with the height of that slit. Then, she immediately got annoyed with herself for that internalized patriarchal attitude. Pansy’s skirt was professional. Pansy was a very competent employee and a hard worker. If someone chose to take away from that by commenting on her clothes that said more about the person commenting than it did about Pansy.

However, despite being fully aware of her own potentially unprofessional behaviour, when Pansy leaned over to take her purse out from a bottom desk drawer, Hermione allowed her gaze to travel up the slit of Pansy’s skirt and settle firmly on the curve of Pansy’s behind.

Pansy set the purse on her desk and then sat back down in her chair to remove her patent pumps and replace them with more weather appropriate boots. Hermione wondered why she hadn’t done this before getting her purse out when she had been first sitting down. Part of Hermione hoped that Pansy’s display – her long legs accentuated by the heels and her skirt – was intentionally done for Hermione’s benefit. But maybe she was just reading into things.

Or, maybe she wasn’t? Pansy had a slightly diabolical little smile on her face as she pulled on her boots. Almost as if she knew exactly the kind of effect she was having on Hermione.

Boots on, Pansy came around her desk, purse on one arm. She plucked her coat up from the hook and shrugged it on, pulling her gloves out of the pocket.

“Well, Granger, shall we?” Pansy asked Hermione, as she turned towards her.

Hermione swallowed, trying to return some moisture to her mouth. “Sure, Pansy,” she said, wondering if she should offer Pansy her arm. That would be the polite thing to do, right? Since Pansy had practically commanded Hermione to walk her out. Right? Right. She offered Pansy her arm.

To her surprise, Pansy took it.

The feel of Pansy’s fingers on her forearm was electric. A thrill shot through Hermione, and complete and utter longing for this woman – _Pansy_ – hit her like a tonne of bricks.

They walked down the hall towards the entrance of the building. Hermione was wracking her brain to find a way to make this interaction last longer. She didn’t want to say goodbye to Pansy at the door. She was being ridiculous, she knew this. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t see Pansy the next day. But Hermione knew that the intimacy of this moment, the dreamlike feeling that it was just the two of them in the world, would be lost.

She worked up her courage.

“Pan-Pansy,” Hermione stuttered. She looked Pansy, and thought she saw a faint flush high on Pansy’s cheeks.

“Yes, Granger?” Pansy seemed like she was purposefully not looking at Hermione. Although, and she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, Hermione thought she felt the faint stroking of Pansy’s fingers on her forearm.

She glanced down at Pansy’s hand. She wasn’t imagining it. Pansy was very gently, very slowly, running her fingers lightly back and forth on Hermione’s arm. Hermione suddenly thought that this was a tipping point. She couldn’t back down. Where was that Gryffindor courage?

“I’m sure you have plans already, but if you don’t, did you want to get a coffee? Ah… with me? Right now?” Hermione let out in a rush of breath. 

“No, Granger, I don’t want to go for coffee,” Pansy said, her fingers never stopping their light, suggestive path up and down Hermione’s arm.

Hermione’s heart immediately dropped; she was crestfallen. How could she be so stupid? Of course, Pansy wouldn’t want to go for coffee with her. Pansy was glamorous and gorgeous and smart and cunning. Hermione was dowdy and plain and certainly not as adventurous nor as desirable as Pansy was.

“Oh. Okay, never mind then, forget I said anything,” Hermione mumbled, tensing up, trying not to let Pansy see how foolishly hurt she was.

Pansy’s grip tightened on Hermione’s arm.

“It’s far too late for coffee,” Pansy said breezily, as if Hermione hadn’t spoken. “If I have more coffee now, I’ll be unable to sleep. And, if I’m not sleeping, I’d rather it be because of something far more salacious than caffeine.” Pansy looked sidelong at Hermione from underneath her lashes. Hermione could feel the heat rising in her cheeks as she began to wonder what Pansy Parkinson considered ‘salacious’.

“So, no, doll, I do not _want_ to go for coffee with you right now,” repeated Pansy, more firmly gripping Hermione’s arm. “What I’d like to do is take you to this dark little cocktail bar around the corner from my flat and buy you a drink or three.” At this, Pansy stopped walking down the hallway, and turned and looked Hermione directly in her eyes.

“Oh,” breathed Hermione, as her stomach both plummeted and rose into her throat, anxiety and excitement warred within her. Excitement won. “Yes, let’s do that.”

Pansy was still smirking, but her eyes had softened. With careful deliberation, Pansy slid her hand from Hermione’s arm and interlaced their fingers. She began to stroke her thumb over the back of Hermione’s hand. It felt intentionally soothing to Hermione.

Hermione felt her heart jump as she looked at their interlaced hands. This, _this_ , was what she wanted, this was what she had been looking for, the mystery that she had been trying to figure out. When she looked up from their hands to Pansy’s face, Hermione saw that Pansy’s armour had fallen away and a genuine smile had replaced her standard smirk.

“I was wondering how long it was going to take you to figure out that you liked me, Hermione,” Pansy said, voice just above a whisper.

“Apparently, I can be pretty oblivious,” replied Hermione gently, feeling absurd giddiness rise in her at Pansy _finally_ using her given name. “And,” she added, “you’re notoriously hard to read.”

Pansy nodded, “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

They left the building in companionable silence, punctuated by covert glances on Hermione’s part and wicked little smirks on Pansy’s part when she caught Hermione staring. Fingers still twined together, they set out into the night and into the fresh snowfall.

**Author's Note:**

> Any feedback, comments, or kudos are greatly appreciated!
> 
> I'm on tumblr! You can find me @ [redplaid-on-redplaid](https://redplaid-on-redplaid.tumblr.com/). (Spoiler alert - I do not know how to tumblr, but I am learning! Slowly.)


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